It's Never Too Late To Learn
by thestarktruth
Summary: Or at least, that's what Professor McGonagall always says. But if you're a sixteen-year-old who just found out you're a wizard, is it still possible to learn magic?
1. The Missing

**AN: This is a story that's been rolling around in my head after I learned about the "missing wizards and witches". Please review with any feedback or questions you have. I really do hope you enjoy.**

 **(disclaimer: i do not own any of the harry potter franchise etc. etc.)**

* * *

 _ **[SMALL CABIN IN DEAN FOREST.]**_

A very curly head of brown hair is bent over a wooden desk, frantically writing, nearly upsetting one of the three inkwells perched on top.

"Damn," the curly head says, putting down her quill and shaking her hand out. The woman whistles, and a small owl flew over to her, winging its way through the erratically placed furniture.

"Thanks, Pig," Hermione Granger whispers. She ties a brown envelope onto the owl's leg. "Be fast."

* * *

 _ **[APARTMENT IN LONDON. JULY 31.]**_

 _BAM_

Harry Potter looks up right as the owl hits his rain-soaked window. Startled, he leaps out of his chair and climbs over his desk to get to the owl before it kills itself trying to get through. The owl clings to his arm, pathetically drenched in water.

"Aw, Pig," Harry says, noticing the letter attached to his leg. "You crash into that window every single time." Carefully, he carries the owl to his desk. He plops himself down there as well.

"Well, let's see what we have here," he says, hurriedly untying the light brown envelope.

The address on it is scrawled with a frenzied hand, almost unable to be made out. Distinctly, Harry recognises it as a letter written by his best friend, Hermione Granger.

Growing wary, Harry opens it, sliding the paper out slowly and reads:

 _"Harry - remember back when Voldemort took over M.o.M.? Just discovered that he had all the muggle-born wizard and witch records for that year destroyed. Completely. Except I found a copy of the list at old Holden's work cabin. Harry, there are still wizards and witches out there who haven't received their letters. Some are 16 already. We need to do something now. - Hermione"_

Harry feels a massive headache coming over him. He pushes his hand through his black hair and closes his eyes behind his glasses.

"Dear lord," he mutters.

* * *

 _ **[MINISTRY OF MAGIC PRESS ROOM. AUGUST 2.]**_

Hermione Granger walks into the room, standing a bit uncomfortably in front of a podium with the light brown Ministry of Magic flag hanging off of it.

She clears her throat, clasping her hands around the podium edges and squinting past all the light shining on her. "Witches and wizards of Great Britain, I am standing before you today to remind you of an instance that occurred many years ago. We have done our best to forget that it ever happened, but truthfully there is still residue left behind from this wizard and his following."

Cameras flash and pop.

"Yes, you all are aware of whom I speak of. Voldemort." At this, a collective shudder passes through the crowd of reporters.

"Many years ago, when many of us were in our seventh year of Hogwarts, Voldemort and his followers took over control of our beloved ministry. During this time, as the days grew darker, followers of Voldemort wiped out records of the muggle-born witches and wizards born that year.

"However, two days ago, I uncovered a surviving copy of those records. The witches and wizards whose names are on it have not received their letters. All 41 of them.

"As we speak, the ministry is forming plans as to how to move forth. We are treating this situation with utmost caution. These unknown magic-welders are living out Muggle lives, under the notion that they are just freak shows. They are most likely confused and afraid when they have outbursts of magic and have been trying to suppress those spontaneous moments. Some of these adolescents have already turned sixteen."

As Hermione pauses, questions are thrown at her.

"Minister, why haven't you tried to excavate these records earlier?"

"OVER HERE OVER HERE, MINISTER GRANGER- "

"- Excuse me, Miss Granger, by clause 21 shouldn't we have been notified of the missing records for the general public's well-being? Why haven't we discovered them earlier?"

"Is this directly related to the Muggle reported accidents occurring at secondary schools?"

Hermione walks out of the press room, declining questions. The crowd of journalists and cameramen are right on her Gucci heels.

One man turns to a reporter running next to him. "So where are they now?"

* * *

 _ **[BIRMINGHAM.]**_

It is raining. A lot.

Only a few houses still have lit windows.

Inside one of them, Georgie Park sits at her desk, working on her school project for the physics class. She groans, throwing her head back over her swivel chair, as she realises that she is still left with her maths homework _and_ history essay.

It wasn't her fault the physics teacher, Mr Brimley didn't like her. That explosion in the physics lab wasn't _caused_ by her, right? Surely it was only a coincidence, that right when Georgie wished that test would disappear, her table caught on fire and destroyed half the classroom - wasn't it? The table wasn't even supposed to catch on fire, according to the label on it. "Fire-proof & classroom ready" it read.

Cursing stern Mr Brimley and his infamous amount of homework, she pushes on stubbornly, ignorant of the fact that it is getting later and later.

* * *

 _ **[CAMBRIDGE.]**_

Elphias Abbot and his fluffy white cat lay curled up on the sofa, basking in the heat of the fire. He is re-reading his favourite book, "The Lord of the Rings", for what it seems like the thousandth time. Yet it never gets old.

He scratches his blonde head, sighing blissfully, as he wishes deep in his heart that he could have adventures just like Frodo and Sam.

The fire behind him crackles loudly, as if in response.

Extremely loudly.

* * *

 _ **[COVENTRY.]**_

"Go, Dirk!"

"Yeah! That's my son!"

"Woohoo!"

The people watching go wild as Dirk Twycross makes the winning goal into the soccer net. Grinning madly, he flashes a thumbs-up at his parents sitting in the stands as his teammates start to crowd around him.

Dirk's coach _isn't_ happy though.

"Dirk, there were four interceptions that were right in front of you, and two open shots that you missed," his coach says, fuming.

"But, sir," Dirk replies hesitantly, wiping his sweaty face with his jersey. "We won."

"Don't get me started on the five passes that you could've made," retorts his coach. He continues more softly when Dirk's face falls. "What's wrong, Dirk? You just weren't playing as well today."

"Well, I haven't been getting that much sleep lately."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"I, uh," Dirk rubs the back of his neck, thinking of an excuse. "I've been staying up reading."

"Oh, really?" Dirk's coach raises his eyebrows. "Alright then. Just make sure you catch up on that sleep. You need it!"

Nodding in response, Dirk watches as his coach turns his attention to other team matters. But Dirk's mind is still occupied on their previous conversation. The truth was, he had woken up floating in the air above his bed last night.

And the night before that.

And the night before that one.

* * *

 _ **[APARTMENT IN LONDON.]**_

"Harry, we should notify them through something more than a letter," Hermione is saying. She is resting her legs on a coffee table, the rest of her body tucked under a blanket on an armchair. Exhaustion is written all over her face.

"Right," Harry responds. He finishes sarcastically, "Why don't we send a stranger to a random house that they've never been before and see if they're invited inside. I'm sure they'll be believable."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "The magic words, Harry, are 'gifted and talented child'." She adds after forethought, "No pun intended."

"If someone had knocked on the Burrow door and told us that Fred was a 'gifted and talented child', I would let them right in," Ron Weasley adds from his chair.

"Shush, Ron," Hermione snaps. "This is an important conversation."

"I'm important too, lovely one!"

Harry claps his hands together. "We can't just sit around all week arguing." The bickering pair turns expectantly towards him. "Let's just send a letter to each of them for now. We'll explain what we need to explain in the letter, and give them a choice."

"They _should_ have a choice," Harry says when Ron opens his mouth.

"That's not what I was going to say," says Ron. " _I_ was going to say that I still like the idea of sending someone to their houses a lot better."

"No, I agree with Harry, Ron. Now that I think about it, the chance that we'll be dismissed as a joke is vast," Hermione replies. "When you're eleven, it's easier to believe. But when you're sixteen... "

"Alright, Minister," Ron says, throwing up his hands and knocking over Hermione's half-full latte drink in the process. "You know best."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione responds, looking sadly at the remains of her latte.

"Sorry."

* * *

 ** _HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_**

 ** _Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall (Order of Merlin, International Confed. of Witches, Console to Ministry of Magic, Chief Advisor to Minister for Magic)_**

 _Dear Mr. Aberforthy,_

 _You have been experiencing many cases of "odd" incidents that cannot be explained by the average man or woman. These can only be explained by one thing: magic._

 _Although your parents are both non-magic, you have been gifted with the power of witchcraft and wizardry. Yes, you are a wizard._

 _We understand that this may come as an extreme shock to you and we sincerely hope that you choose to believe us. Accepting our offer of acceptance at our prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will make life easier for you and teach you to control your magic._

 _Please consider wisely._

 _Term begins on September 1. We await your response, mailed to the following address, by no later than August 14th._

 _"MoM_

 _Whitehall"_

 _(The postmen will know what to do to get it to us. Do not worry about the remainder of the address.)_

 _Yours sincerely,_

 ** _Hermione Granger,_**

 ** _Minister for Magic_**

The teenager looks at the paper he holds in his hand with disgust and tosses it into the nearest trash can.

"Bloody pranks are only escalating these days," he mutters.

Little does he know that forty other teenagers had received a copy of that very same letter that very same day.

* * *

 _ **[BIRMINGHAM.]**_

 _... Yours sincerely,_

 **Hermione Granger,**

 **Minister for Magic**

Georgie stares at the letter. It doesn't make any sense, and yet it does. It certainly answers all her questions about the freakish accidents happening lately.

She puts down the letter on her desk next to the ripped envelope with the red seal that it had come in. Looking into the mirror next to her desk, she scrutinized herself in it sedulously.

Could she really be magic?

"Blimey," she whispers. Then she yelps as golden sparks ignite over her bed.

* * *

 _ **[CAMBRIDGE.]**_

"No. Way."

Elphias collapses onto his bed, clutching the letter over his skinny chest. He squeals, then abruptly stops and looks around, making sure his mother isn't standing at the door like that one time when he was re-enacting a scene from "The Lord of the Rings".

She's not there, thankfully.

Sighing with relief, Elphias scans over the letter's content once more, his heart beating rapidly.

"Magic," he whispers to himself, over and over again, grinning stupidly. "Magic."

* * *

 _ **[COVENTRY.]**_

Running into the men's bathroom at his school, Dirk slams the stall door and drops himself onto the lidded toilet. He stares open-mouthed at the letter once more.

"Of all the bloody... _magic_?" Dirk exclaims to himself. How the letter had reached his school was beyond his imagination. It was waiting for him at the front desk when he had arrived that morning.

He re-reads the letter and pinches himself to make sure he isn't dreaming. Immediately he thinks of the nights interrupted as he woke up floating seven feet in the air at night.

Dirk ruffles his honey brown hair nervously, and leans backwards, propping his elbows on the white back of the toilet.

"Damn. I guess I'm special after all," he says resolutely. He laughs - a little bit hysterically.

"You alright in there, mate?" A boy standing outside washing his hands asks.

* * *

 _ **[HOUSE IN LONDON. AUGUST 15.]**_

"Well, that's that, mate," Ron says, dropping three envelopes onto Harry's lap as he walks into Hermione's home office. "Only three."

Harry picks them up incredulously. "Only three?"

Ron sits cross-legged on the carpet near Harry, holding a bowl in one hand and rapidly forking some pasta into his mouth with the other, while Hermione, sitting at her desk, looks at him in amused disgust. His next sentence comes out jumbled. "Yesh, owny dree."

"Bloody hell," Harry replies. "I suppose -"

"- No, Harry, we mustn't. If they won't listen to the letter, then I don't want to send witches and wizards out and risk getting exposed. That won't help our mess at all," interjects Hermione. "We'll just do our best teaching the children that have responded." She walks over and begins to read through the letters over Harry's shoulder.

"They're not children! They're bloody sixteen!" Ron exclaims, having finished his pasta in record-breaking time.

"I believe your mother referred to you as a child until twenty years of age, Ronald Weasley," responds Hermione flatly. Harry grins at Ron, shaking his head.

Ron clears his throat bashfully. "Right, well... "

Hermione rubs her chin thoughtfully while Ron tries to grab the letters from Harry, Harry teasingly pulling them back repeatedly. "So, Dirk Twycross, Georgiana Park, and Elphias Abbot, huh?" She snatches the letters out of Ron's hands as he finally begins to read them.

"HEY!"

Ignoring Ron's protests, Hermione copies the addresses of the three letters onto separate envelopes, pre-written letters already inside them.

Pig flies overhead to her, holding his leg out. "Not this time, Pig," Hermione says, gently pushing the owl away. "I'm sending these by regular post." Disappointed, Pig wings his way to Ron, where he finds solace in preening the red-head's hair.

"What's in that envelope?" Ron asks.

"Another letter telling them that they'll need to come to Diagon Alley on a certain day. I'm sending Neville to meet them there."

"Neville?"

"Yes, Ron," Hermione says. "Neville Longbottom. Now a professor at Hogwarts. You know."

"Why Neville?"

"Because he's _nice_ , Ron."

* * *

 _ **[OUTSIDE THE LEAKY CAULDRON. AUGUST 25TH.]**_

Neville Longbottom nervously wiggles his fingers as he waits for the three muggle-borns to arrive. He fidgets with his Muggle attire, pulling at the tighter-than-expected jeans he was told to wear. Oh, if only Luna was there with him. She always made him feel better.

"Stop thinking about her!" He chastises himself. He makes a face as his light brown hair tousles in the cold wind, and he zips up his light grey jacket. Neville takes a long glance at his black watch and almost misses the blonde-haired teenager approaching him cautiously.

"Excuse me, sir," the boy says. "Are you..." Here, he consults the paper that he has gripped in his pale hand. "Are you Professor Longbottom, sir?"

"That's me," Neville replies. He smiles. "And you are?"

"Oh! I'm Elphias Abbot, sir," the kid says.

 _Why does the kid keep calling him sir?_ Neville uncomfortably shifts from one foot to another. He was never quite good at meeting new people. _And this darn kid won't stop staring at him!_ The two awkwardly avoid eye contact with one another, both being rather shy.

A tall teenager lopes across the street, jaywalking to get to the odd pair. As he dodges between the cars, they honk at him, and he waves merrily at them.

"You from the, ah, ministry, then?" He asks, stopping in front of them to tilt his head and size up the two.

"I am," Neville says. "Although I'm really more of a professor at Hogwarts."

"Cool," the boy says. "You must be Mr Longbottom then. I'm Dirk. Dirk Twycross." He extends his hand towards Neville and they shake. Dirk and Elphias shake hands with one another as well. The two stand together, bracing themselves against the air buffeting against their backs, one lanky, one skinny.

"I'm Elphias."

"Well isn't that an oldish name," says Dirk, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "I think I'll call you Elphie."

"Oh, no," Elphias responds, flushing slightly. "I don't really like nicknames." He instantly remembers last week at school when Hortensia Green had called him 'Elf Butt' after she saw him reading "The Lord of the Rings" in the cafeteria. That name had caught like wildfire.

The brown-haired teen standing in front of him interrupts his horrid reminiscing. "Nah, don't worry, Elphie," he says, flashing a genuine grin. Elphias grimaces, but a small smile escapes his lips, being rather pleased to have made a friend so quickly.

"Oh, look," Neville exclaims, pointing to a girl running down the sidewalk. "I think that's the other one." Her eyes seem to be fixed on the Leaky Cauldron, and her black hair flies in the wind. She is a little short for her age, but it isn't any matter to her because she is jogging rather faster than most. True to the statement, she is bypassing most of the strangers on the street, getting closer and closer to the trio.

"How do you know, sir?" Elphias asks, interested.

"Well, she can see the pub we're standing in front of," responds Neville. The two teens whirl around to stare at the beat up looking black doors labelled "The Leaky Cauldron".

"What do you mean?" Dirk asks.

Neville gestures silently at the muggles walking down the street. Their eyes seem to slide from the bookstore on the left of the pub, right onto the record store on the right of it, glossing completely over the Leaky Cauldron as if the space isn't there.

"They can't see it," Elphias says slowly. "They're not like us."

"Whoa..."

The teenage girl has now caught up to them. She screeches to a stop, wiping sweaty palms on her black jeans. "Am I late?" she huffs out, with her hands resting on her knees, glancing up at them.

"No, not at all," Neville answers. "Just on time."

Looking them over, she pants out, "Well - _pant -_ I should hope so. _Pant_ \- because I just ran - _pant pant_ \- here. So - _pant_ \- you're Professor - _pant -_ Longbottom. And I'm guessing you fellows - _pant_ \- are the other blokes?"

"Yup, I'm Elphias Abbot."

"Dirk Twycross. Nice to meet ya."

Neville nods warmly at her. "Are you Georgiana Park?"

"Yes," the girl says, now having fully caught her breath. "But please call me Georgie. It's much preferred over the other."

The four embrace an awkward silence, where they all stare at each other, trying not to do so inconspicuously.

"Right," Neville says. "Let's get started. This is - like mentioned - the Leaky Cauldron, _and_ the entrance to Diagon Alley. I'll show you around, and we can pick up your supplies. So, if we could all just step inside... " The tall man opens the door and steps through, holding it open for Elphias to come in.

Dirk and Georgie, on the other hand, end up stepping in at the same time and get stuck in between the door frame. Their shoulders shove against each other and they push to get inside the dimly lit pub.

"Blimey - "

" - sorry - "

" - If you could just - "

" - Ouch - "

The two untangle themselves finally and stare awed at the peculiar crowd of witches and wizards having drinks and chatting over copies of "The Daily Prophet", immediately forgetting the soreness just earned from the struggle. " _MUGGLE FIASCO SOLVED_ ", the headlines on the newspapers scream. A _moving_ picture of a bushy-haired woman is pasted under the headlines, with a caption that reads "Hermione Granger, Minister for Magic." The name rings familiar in Dirk's mind, but he can't quite place it.

"Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron!" an old man standing at the bar shouts over the bustle.


	2. Diagon Alley

_**[THE LEAKY CAULDRON.]**_

Neville leads the wide-mouthed trio through the throng of various people, occasionally tripping over the shopping bags strewn near occupied tables.

One witch and her husband are discussing the magical properties of phoenix feathers, while their young little son is feeding his snow-white owl bright green bugs from a bag labelled "Eeylops Owl Emporium".

"Bloody smaragdos beetles," Neville mutters as he weaves his way past them.

Dirk stares wide-eyed at the owl slowly munching on one of the bugs, its beak slightly stained green, and a twitching insect leg sticking out of it. Elphias shudders and pushes Georgie, who is standing in front of him, onward. She grins, not disconcerted in any way.

Neville motions for the three to join him at the bar, where the silver-haired old man who had welcomed them in is standing.

"This is Tom," Neville informs them. "He makes the best steak and kidney pie in Britain."

Tom chuckles. "Aw, stop flattering me, you little punk." To the teenagers' surprise, Tom reaches over and tousles stoic Neville's hair.

"He's also sort of my second father," says Neville, smiling.

Georgie, Dirk, and Elphias stand awkwardly next to sitting Neville, still craning their neck to stare at witches and wizards, receiving some odd looks themselves.

Sliding three drinks over to the teens, Tom leans over the counter. "So," he says. "What're you four up to?"

Neville puts his arm over the drinks and gives the old man a glare. "Tom! That's firewhisky that is!"

Dirk throws an excited look at Georgie, whose eyes are as round as his. Elphias looks stunned.

"Is it really?" Tom asks, giving Neville an innocent look. He clears them away chuckling.

"Anyways," Neville responds, shaking his head. "We're heading to Diagon Alley."

"Well, be on your way then!" exclaims Tom, pushing Neville off his chair. The tall man grunts in shock. "There's a lot of back to school sales going on today! You'll miss all the good deals!"

Dirk smirks at Neville. "Righto, Professor," he says. "Wouldn't want to miss those."

Adjusting his sweater studiously, Neville clears his throat. "It's just this way." He points to a beat-up looking door at the back of the pub and makes a move towards it.

The three teens don't move.

"So, er," Elphias asks Neville haltingly. "What exactly is Diagon Alley?"

"Blimey," Tom says in surprise. "You didn't tell them?" He shoots Neville a disapproving look.

"I was getting around to it," Neville grumbles. "Go wash some dishes or something."

* * *

 _ **[THE BACKYARD OF THE LEAKY CAULDRON.]**_

A blank brick wall faces the four of them. A silver garbage can with nothing in it is pushed against it.

"Ah," Dirk says. "Behold the mighty Diagon Alley!"

Georgie shakes her head. "Look."

Neville has taken his wand out. It is made of a rather rigid looking wood, with a reddish tinge.

"A _wand_ ," Elphias breathes out.

Before his awed eyes, Neville mutters to himself, counting red bricks above the trash can. He gently taps one plain brick and suddenly the bricks begin to move and twist and turn.

An archway appears, wide and a window into a populous, very busy, street.

Georgie lets out a breath that she isn't aware she was holding. "Whoa," she says.

"Whoa," Dirk and Elphias agree.

Neville raises his eyebrows at them in satisfaction and bobs his chin toward the opening.

"Diagon Alley," he says.


	3. Ollivanders

_**[DIAGON ALLEY. FLOREAN FORTESCUE'S ICE CREAM PARLOUR.]**_

Dirk and Elphias and Georgie are having what they believe is the best ice-cream ever. Neville is watching them a bit sadly, remembering the old Florean Fortescue. He had disappeared, presumed dead, and now his not-so-little daughter runs the parlour. The only thing left of the good old man is the name and his secret recipes for hand-churned ice cream.

 _"My treat,"_ Neville had insisted. And the three teens had accepted it without hesitation. They were growing on him, he had to admit. Especially after three hours of shopping. And a couple arguments over how many extra books one could buy with the school's muggle-born fund at "Flourish and Blotts" if they could buy a broomstick - "You have to know how to ride one to buy one, kid." - and whether or not to purchase candy from "Sugarplum's Sweet Shop" - they decided not to after Dirk tried one of the "Bertie Bott's Every Flavoured Beans" samples and nearly hurled.

The only things left for them to purchase now is an owl - if they want - and, of course, their wands.

Professor Longbottom watches as Dirk points out a smear of strawberry ice cream on Elphias' pale face. Elphias gives a cry of surprise and wipes at it with his hand, only spreading it more. Snickering, Georgie hands him a napkin, holding onto her own green ice cream.

"We still need to buy our wands. Right, sir?" says Elphias to Neville, having now gotten rid of the smear.

"Yes," Neville says. "Er, by the way." Elphias looks at him in expectation. "You don't need to call me sir."

"Oh, okay," Elphias says lightheartedly.

"Well, at least not here," continues Neville sheepishly. "At Hogwarts, maybe. But not here." He shifts in his metal seat. "In answer to your question, yes, we need to buy your wands."

"Oh, exciting!" Georgie exclaims. "I wonder what kind of wand I'll get."

"Probably something infused with the dung of-" Dirk consults his newly purchased Potions textbook. "Dung of Mandrake. Whatever that is." He smiles at Elphias, wiggling his eyebrows. Elphias tries not to chortle too loud.

"Bloody heck, Dirk," says Georgie, taking the joke lightly.

"I don't think Mandrakes have, er, posteriors," Neville replies to Dirk.

* * *

 _ **[OLLIVANDERS.]**_

The peeling gold script written over the door had read "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC". '382 BC' rolls around in Elphias' head as he steps into the wand shop behind Georgie and Dirk, followed by Mr Longbottom.

A musty odour immediately hits all of their noses. It is a gloomy and dark shop, the walls crowded with flat brown boxes. An old man appears before them, peering at them eccentrically through gold-rimmed glasses. This is presumably Mr Ollivander, Elphias reasons to himself.

"Ah," the old man whispers. "First timers, but not first years." Suddenly, so quickly that Elphias and Dirk take a quick step back, Mr Ollivander whips out a yellowing measuring tape and flicks it. The tape extends to a good length and flies next to Georgie.

"Wand arm?" The old man asks, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Your dominant arm," Neville whispers. Georgie holds up her left arm dubiously. Muttering to himself, the old man begins to measure it.

Elphias is so intent on watching the old man putter around the shelves, that he almost doesn't realise that the tape is measuring Georgie on its own.

He nudges Dirk and points it out.

"AH!" Mr Ollivander cries just then, making them all jump. "Try this one." He reverently carries over a box and removes a wand from it. "Unicorn tail, bendy, seven inches - " He abruptly snatches it from Georgie as soon as she waves it around uncertainly.

Mr Ollivander disappears amongst the shelves, then comes back carrying two dark boxes. "If not one, then the other," he says, carefully taking out a slim green-tinged wand.

He motions for Georgie to take it and swish it once more. She does so. Nothing happens.

"Hmmm," Mr Ollivander mumbles seriously. "Hmmm." Georgie is beckoned to try the other one he is now holding. It is made of a light grey wood, and somehow, she feels compelled to run her hand along the length of it.

Instead, she grabs it determinedly and is about to give it a wave when it suddenly gives off a flash of green sparks.

"Ah, yes!" The old man cries out happily. He claps his hands then bustles over to the box, placing a complementary handkerchief inside it, and then putting it on top of his counter.

Georgie is left standing in the middle of the room, clutching her new wand.

"Yes, yes," Mr Ollivander says, coming back to her. "Aspen, with a dragon's heartstring core. Ten and a half inches, and rather rigid. For the strong-minded and resolute. That you must be, my dear."

"Oh." Georgie doesn't feel strong-minded at all. She returns to the group standing near the door and spends her time inspecting her wand. It feels alive.

"You or me next?" Dirk asks Elphias politely.

"You can go," is Elphias' response, but Dirk can tell that the blonde boy is wishing for his turn.

"You go."

Unable to contain his eager grin, Elphias thrusts out his right arm. "My wand arm," he tells Mr Ollivander. The old man snaps his fingers and the measuring tape measures along the teenager's thin arm, while he, himself, wanders through the shelves of boxes.

Mr Ollivander returns with a box and takes out a long wand. Pushing up his glasses, he holds it out to Elphias, watching him keenly. As soon as Elphias' finger touches it, he whisks it away, mumbling to himself.

Elphias tries another. "Pear wood, my dear. Pear," Mr Ollivander says to him before dashing off once more.

The teen has hardly given it a hard swish before Mr Ollivander comes back and shoves another into his hands eagerly. "Pine?" Then, "No, no, no," as no particular sparks emit from the wand.

"Maybe - but no - but just maybe... " The old man says to himself, glancing at Elphias and cocking his head. Then he scurries down the shelf nearest to them, running his hands down the boxes. How the old man could tell what was in those boxes without reading labels was beyond Elphias' comprehension.

"Try this one." Mr Ollivander trembles in excitement as Elphias reaches for the light brown wand freshly removed from its box.

The teenager picks it up and gracefully slashes it through the air. A whoosh of air accumulates in front of him, gets sucked into the tip of the wand, then back out again and all the way out the window.

"Hmmm," says Mr Ollivander. "Curious. Cypress wood."

"W-what's curious about that?" Elphias asks, certain that he has done something wrong.

"I have not sold one of these in a long time," responds the old man. "Very loyal wands they make for the brave and the bold and the _self-sacrificing_. 13 inches and extremely rigid. Hmmm."

"Brave and bold, huh?" Elphias hears Dirk say. "Knew you had it in you."

"And the core?" whispers Elphias.

"Unicorn tail," is Mr Ollivander's reply. He holds Elphias' gaze for a solid moment, then nods and moves onto Dirk.

Dirk is given a shorter blackish wand at first. "Dogwood," Mr Ollivander says. "For the more playfu - nope." He plucks the wand out of Dirk's right hand, then reaches behind him for another. "This one?"

The teenager gives it a try, only to another failure. Soon there are many boxes littered around his feet, reminders of other short-comings - although Mr Ollivander only appears to be growing happier by the box, muttering about 'tough customers' and 'quite needed challenge'.

Finally, Mr Ollivander slides a ladder over to a shelf and climbs up slowly, groaning about old legs and arthritis. He seizes a dust-laden box from the top and brings it down.

This new wand is a wonderfully vivid brown colour, and it is of a longer length than the ones he previously tried. Dirk takes it in his hand and immediately feels a red coloured cloud coming out of his wand and rushing through his hair.

Mr Ollivander gives Dirk a look. "Sycamore. It only chooses those who are as eager for new experiences as they. It is a quirk of these handsome wands that they may become 'bored', and - like Mr Ruffalo, who found that his trusty wand burst into flame when he asked it, one more time, to fetch his slippers - you may find that over time, they may lose loyalty to you."

Dirk gives Mr Ollivander a wide-eyed look, swaying slightly under his disheveled honey-brown hair.

"Twelve and three-fourth inches," Mr Ollivander continues mildly. "Slightly flexible, and a unicorn hair core."

The old man re-packages the three boxes and sets them lined up on the counter. "That will be 21 galleons," he says after a moment's pause.

Neville gives him the desired amount, counting the coins out pain-stakingly. Wands seem to be more expensive now than they used to be.

"Great things, my dears," Mr Ollivander says to the three. "Together, you three could make a fearsome trio of wizards and witches. Yes, yes. Muggle-born too. Yes."

Then, Mr Ollivander bows them out of the shop.


End file.
